Prologue 
 

      The woman glanced blearily at the clock. Three am, and Studley obviously needed to go out. He was whimpering, deep in his throat, and his cold nose kept nudging her arm.

      Damn dog! She reached out and gave the rough coat a pat. Zombielike, she stumbled across the room, to the front door, and unfastened the lock. “Out!” she commanded, punctuating it with a squeaky yawn.

      When she opened her eyes again, He was there. The man was standing on the grass, just off the porch.

      It was a very small porch.

      She slammed the door and locked it, then raced through the house. In her mind she kept picturing Him running, trying to beat her to the back door. It’s locked...it’s gotta be locked.

      It was, but she didn’t feel any better. No one had any business standing there, on her property, at three in the morning.

      He was up to no good. She ran for the kitchen and picked up a knife in one hand and the phone in the other. The knife shook in her frozen fingers. Not a good thing. He’ll use it on me.

      He damn well better not try. Her shadowy reflection in the window glass was that of a madwoman, brandishing a blade. Her staccato movements glinted across the toaster face, and she jumped, slashing the air.

      Hysteria burbled up, like an unwanted belch...before sense clunked in with a nearly audible jolt. Window...nightlight...he’ll see me. Frantic, she dropped onto the floor, and punched in a fumbling “911”.

      If he saw me, I hope he saw the knife, too.

      She shouted into the phone, “There was—!”, realised she was shouting, and quickly hissed, “There was a man!”

      Why the hell hadn’t Studley barked?! The damned dog had practically dumped her in the killer’s lap!

      The Police Operator was offering instructions now, and the woman listened to them blankly. She’d just recalled something very pertinent to her case.

      “N-Never mind,” she said, replacing the receiver with shaking hands.

      A dream. It had to be a dream.

      But it wasn’t and she knew it. It was what she’d tell them, though, when they asked.

      She sat there, huddled, too scared to challenge the near-dark. Her eyes were already scrunched closed, but now she drew up her knees and buried her face in her arms.

      Shielded...safer.

      Not really...

      She couldn’t afford to move now, even if it meant lighting the house. She was too afraid of what she might see.

      She nestled her head deeper, to block her ears. Too afraid of what she might hear.

      She hummed a little whimper, deep in her throat the way Studley had. Just enough noise to challenge any other whimpers in the room.

      When they came with the squad car to check out her call, she’d have to get up—but not till then. Then, it’d be okay—maybe even safe.

      Why hadn’t Studley barked? That one was easy—now that she’d remembered.

      About Studley. He’d been dead...for almost a week.

*

      Chapter One 
 

      Some people spend their entire lives “on the edge.” I’m not alone.

      Hers was merely a variation on a theme. And I can put up with anything...

      That’s what people believed, anyway. Emma sighed. The reality was a lot different. Basically, she lived for those days when her life was as normal as anyone else’s...and tried, a little desperately sometimes, to appear undaunted by the rest.

      There’s always someone, who has it worse...

      At least, she had acceptance on her side. Maybe.

      There were moments when Emma doubted that almost more than she doubted herself. The friends, the acceptance, could all be faked, like the mask she wore marked “normal”.

      This was one of those times. After a near-sleepless night, she was finding it difficult to dredge up optimism. As she walked into the lab, and set up her work station, she made a conscious effort to shake off her depressing thoughts.

      Face it: your life’s good...

      ...save for a few cyclic “disturbances”. The last was such an obvious understatement that she gave an unwilling snort of amusement.

      “It” always happened in cycles, and Emma had never been able to figure out whether the trigger was some kind of lunar influence, a biorhythmic discrepancy, or perhaps, a weird metaphysical imbalance.

      Maybe the planets are lined up or my chakra is hyperactive or...

      Whatever the reason, it was damned annoying. One incident would never satisfy her system, either, and she sometimes wondered whether she was meting out tribute to the gods in the form of embarrassment and panic attacks. And those blasted deities didn’t seem to be satisfied with anything less than her total mortification.

      To think she’d moved to improve the situation! She let out another exasperated snort, then gave Dale, at the next lab bench, an apologetic smile.

      “Problems?” he asked, eyeing the paper in her hand. Then, correctly interpreting the expression on her face, he quickly lifted his feet off the floor. “Now?!” he asked, startled.

      Dale was one of her oldest friends. He’d been the most tolerant of her flatmates during her attempt at communal living in college. Now, he worked in the same research lab. Amazingly enough, he wasn’t put off by her problem. Most of the time, he seemed to find it amusing.

      That seemed to be most people’s reaction—until they had a close encounter. She couldn’t figure out why she still had so many friends.

      I’d’ve run the other way, she admitted. She sighed again.

      “I don’t hear anything,” Dale remarked. Usually an episode was punctuated by squeaks and rumbles, scratches and thumps.

      “Because it’s not that problem,” she whispered, with a quick glance at Nicola and Chang. “It’s the other one.”

      Dale smirked. “Do you really think they don’t know, about the ‘other’ one? Earth to brainless: there’s no need to whisper.”

      “I’d sure as hell rather be prepared,” Chang murmured, carefully pipetting into an Eppendorf tube.

      “Same here,” Nicola agreed. “I want to get my feet up off the ground.”

      “How can you all be so calm?!” Emma complained. “Don’t you know what I’m capable of?!”

      “Havoc.” Dale shrugged. “Think how boring it’d be without you. Besides, they had the place fumigated last month. Chances are we won’t see a thing.”

      “Sure.” Chang chuckled. “You just go on thinking that, Iverson. I, for one, am backing things up.” He reached over, clicked the “Save” icon on the laptop, and recorded his file on disk, just in case. Then, to prove his point, he put two tubes on ice, covered the test tube with cotton again, stripped off his gloves and crossed his arms. “Ready.”

      “You are sooo cold,” Nicola chided. “Think of the poor girl’s feelings.” But she saved her work, too.

      “Poor menace,” Dale retorted. “Think how I feel when they run over my feet.”

      “It’s not that problem,” Emma said again. “It’s the other one. I must have alienated my tenth policeman last night—”

      “Eighteenth,” Chang argued. At her outraged look he grinned mockingly. “I’ve been keeping track. It’s how I get my kicks. Beats the Internet.”

      “Nothing beats the Internet,” Dale argued.

      “Thus speaks the game addict.” He strolled over to Dale’s computer and maximised a file on the desktop. “Oh, lookie here...”

      Dale reached past him and “X”ed the corner. “Not during work hours. You know that.”

      “Sure, Dale,” Nicola said sweetly.

      Emma was getting frustrated. “Be that as it may, and add in the codicil that you are all insane, and it still doesn’t help. Last night it was a man, j-just off my porch.”

      “You thought he was real,” Nicola said sympathetically.

      “Duh. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have phoned the police. Only logical,” Chang remarked. “Coffee, anyone?”

      “I don’t think you understand the significance,” Emma argued. “The last fifteen times have been people!”

      Dale shrugged. “So? I fail to see the significance.” He sniggered. “I’m up for coffee.” He strolled from the room.

      Nicola came behind, with Emma. “Jack will be gunning for you now—since you called the cops?”

      “Oh, yeah,” Emma said miserably. “It was his precinct. No way he won’t know.”

      “I wish you luck,” Nicola told her. She put an arm around her shoulders and gave her a quick squeeze. “When he starts shouting, whatever you do, don’t get carried away.”

      Chang poked his head back into the room. “Alternatively, if you decide to go for it, call me, so I can come over and watch.”

*

      It could have gotten her fired, and it would have, if it hadn’t been for Dale, Chang, and Nicola. Whatever they told the bosses about seasonal migrations, or underground flooding, or environmental disturbances had covered her ass. Nor would they let her attend the meeting no matter how much she insisted. The other three felt she wouldn’t have played hapless victim well enough to fool anybody. There was too much guilt in her face.

      It had been six years since then, and she loved her job at Biopath. She’d even developed a reputation in her field, which would help her with future funding, as long as she didn’t blow it in the present.

      Dale was worried about tonight. When Emma was nervous, her control was a little shaky. Not exactly where he wanted to be, he had to admit, but he’d promised his wife he’d keep an eye on her. Marie, like almost everyone else Emma knew, was (if occasionally a trifle disgusted) for the most part, fascinated rather than appalled, by Emma’s ability. Marie’s initial intro had been a moment of shocked horror, and it had taken a while for her to come to terms with Emma’s “talent”, but she’d eventually overcome her aversion.

      You had to see it, though, to believe it. After hearing Dale’s stories, Marie would have done anything to avoid Emma—and then there she’d been, on the opening night of opera. A big group of them had shared a box, and Emma had unexpectedly “shared” her secret. When Dale had started laughing, during Pamina’s aria, Marie hadn’t been able to help herself: she’d joined in.

      That was six years ago, about the time of the incidents in the lab. Since then, with the help of a lot of biofeedback books checked out of the university library, Emma had gradually acquired more control.

      The recent bout of sightings were different, though. Sometimes Emma released some of her tension—whether it was metaphysical or not, Dale had no idea—with the occasional mediumistic stunt. She didn’t mean to, but it seemed to be a saner alternative than her usual, and Dale, for one, preferred it. But, he could imagine on a dark night, when you were half asleep...

      He’d have to talk to her about it, though. She’d conjured up the last guy in her sleep. Same with her dog.

      Must be missing Studley. He was a good mutt, and he’d put up with a lot. He’d been protection for her; warning her when things were getting out of hand.

      Dale sighed. Home for dinner, then off to Emma’s. He couldn’t help but wish tonight it could still be Studley standing guard, rather than him.

*

      Harley crawled in for a coffee at the end of his shift. Paperwork, and then home. He was half-asleep, which was probably why it took him a while to notice that Jock Jamieson was livid.

      So, what else was new? The man’s real name was Jack, but he insisted on Jock—said it reminded him of his football days.

      Jock was a jerk.

      And Harley Chalmers wasn’t ready for him this early in the morning—not after eight hours of night duty. It wasn’t his usual shift, and it never would be—not if he had to finish it with idiots like Jamieson. Harley liked days. He could handle Jock a lot more easily when he was awake. “Don’t look at me, Jock. I’m still coercing coffee into driving me home.” Harley took a loud slurp to end the conversation.

      It would have worked with anyone but Jamieson.

      Or maybe it wouldn’t have, Harley realised, when he finally tuned in to what Jamieson was saying.

      “But Nichols said it was you, who took the call.”

      Harley stared at him blankly. Do ya think he’ll figure out I haven’t been listening, and disappear?

      No. Not Jock.

      “My sister...” Jock prompted. “A prowler...?”

      “The nut case.” It was out before Harley realised, and for the first time, Jock looked a little peeved.

      “Fuck it, Chalmers! It’s not like her to call. There must’ve been a reason.”

      “There was—a nightmare.” I rest my case. Harley drained his cup. If he’d known the woman was Jock’s relation, he’d have made his visit more cursory than it was. Obviously, a history of insanity...

      He smiled kindly at Jock and turned to go.

      “It’s not her fault.” Jock gripped Harley’s shoulder.

      Big mistake. Harley was just glad Jamieson couldn’t see his face.

      Jock was fumbling for excuses now. “Rat’s just missing her dog.” He frowned. “She should have called me first.”

      Harley’s fist was itching to contact Jock’s jaw. His fingers were actually twitching. “‘Rat’?” he asked.

      Jock shifted nervously, and lost some of the attitude which had acquired him a shiftful of enemies. It was obvious he thought he’d given too much away. “Sh-Short for Rathburn...o-or Ratbag. Pet name.” At the last he sniggered.

      “Not a Jamieson, eh?” Lucky girl.

      “No. Stepsister.” Jock added, with a mocking grin, “Gives me more freedom, if you know what I mean.”

      Harley thought he did. Sick bastard. No wonder she didn’t call him.

      Harley’s fist was positively aching now, and he poured himself another cup of coffee, so his fingers would be kept too busy to react. The only way to get rid of Jock at this point was to give him some information. “I took the call, but she was really tense, so I checked out the house for her.”

      “Find anything?”

      “Nope.” Harley shook his head wearily. “Afterwards, she seemed convinced it was a nightmare.” End of story. Slurp. “Kept apologising.” One thing was bothering Harley, though, and he hated to bring it up. Prolonging the agony. “You said she’s missing her dog?” Slurp. “How many does she have?”

      “None, now. ‘Studley’ was her one and only.” Jock sniggered again. “Dog hated me. Glad to see him go.”

      Harley nodded. He didn’t dare open his mouth to comment. His dog Choco would no doubt hate this guy, too. Harley waited until the impulse to pummel the man had passed, then said mildly, “Could have sworn I heard a dog—when I was going through the house.”

      Jock’s eyes flickered with some emotion Harley didn’t recognise. He averted his face, and said tensely, “I’ll stop by and see her later. Make sure everything’s okay.”

      Jock Jamieson had turned into The Mechanical Man. Interesting...

      “Thanks f-for taking care of it.”

      “It”, not “her”. Even more interesting.

      Harley found he recognised the emotion in Jock’s eyes after all. It was echoed in the thin line of his lips.

      Hate. That little show about “Ratbag” was dated—it belonged to years, maybe decades, before. Whatever had transpired during the interim had changed his outlook—especially if it involved paying her a visit.

      Jock Jamieson hated his sister.

      He was also afraid of her.

      “I’ll tell her to lay off the phoney calls.” Jock flicked his crunched coffee cup in the trash and stomped out of the room.

*

      Harley didn’t know why he was interested, but it damn well made him feel like a fool. Any long association with people like Jamieson did that to him. “Long”, in Jamieson’s case, was anything over five minutes. Jock Jamieson’s unique attribute was his singular ability to inflict rectal pain, wherever he went.

      Harley justified what came next by telling himself just how much it would please him to find a skeleton or two in Jocko’s closet.

      You’re taking advantage of his mental deficiencies...

      Harley searched his conscience for traces of guilt, but couldn’t find any. Jock took advantage of their relatively sane minds with his sadistic sense of humour every day. He was a perverted type, with too much interest in the unsavoury, an overblown sense of his own authority, and he frequently used far too much “constraint” during an arrest. Nobody wanted to work with him. They all knew how easy it was to be drawn into a confrontation initiated by someone else.

      The hell with principles. Harley ran a check to see how many calls had been made to the woman’s address.

      Only the one.

      He was about to take off when he decided to cross-reference the file, running the name “Emma Rathburn” instead. The results were rather different.

      She’d called in eighteen reports from nearly as many locations. None of them had resulted in any suspicious activity whatsoever, let alone an arrest. It seemed that the only suspicious activity was Emma Rathburn’s. The most positive report filed by investigating officers referred to the results as “inconclusive”. “Non-existent” would probably have fit just as well.

      He recalled Jock’s words: “It’s not like her to call.” Apparently, Jock didn’t know her as well as he thought. Obviously, she didn’t make a habit of phoning him to bail her out of trouble.

      Harley wished he could dismiss the woman as easily as her stepbrother’s prattle. But there’d been fear in her eyes—enough to make him search the house. It occurred to him Jock might be the source of her troubles. That would explain the fear in Jock’s eyes: he didn’t want to get caught.

      Don’t get involved...

      But then there was Jock’s warning—the one he planned to deliver later today. Harley wondered what form it would take. The girl was tiny, compared to Jock’s big frame. Mental and physical torment would be in keeping with the rest of his personality traits. Abuse was the kind of thing he enjoyed.

      Don’t jump to conclusions.

      The numerous incidents could have been initiated by some old boyfriend, now playing stalker. The lack of physical evidence suggested mental assault, rather than physical.

      Or it could all be a farce. Maybe the reason Jock hates her is because she’s crazy—too crazy even for him to put up with. This could all be some delusion.

      He recalled her expression.

      A delusion she believes.

      Whatever her gene pool, she arose out of the same environment. Jock’s sister, for crissake! Chances were, she was as self-centred as he was. If this was some sort of game she was playing, for attention, he wasn’t the only officer who’d been misled. If, like him, they got involved enough to run her name and background, they would have wondered, just as he was, whether they were being played for fools.

      Contrary to everything he was reading, though, Harley didn’t think she was playing games. Her delusions were too real for that. Whatever was eating at her, she really believed it. As Jock had said, “There must’ve been a reason.”

      Maybe the same reason I heard dog whines and scratches in a house with no dog.

      Cursing himself for stupidity, and more for listening to Jock, Harley clicked the files closed, logged out, and left the building. Sleep was what he needed now, before he ended up as crazy as Emma Rathburn.

*

      Emma dreaded Jack’s arrival.

      But that goes without saying, she thought dismally. After all, I ruined his life. He wouldn’t be such a jerk if it weren’t for me.

      No doubt about it, he wouldn’t spend so much of his life over-compensating if he hadn’t been stuck covering for her all those years.

      And being a dick became a habit with him. If he were tough enough, and manly enough, he’d be untouchable. Nothing could sour his life—not even Emma Rathburn.

      He was the one who’d christened her “Rat”, but it hadn’t been out of goodwill. He’d hated her then because she had, in essence, cost him his family. When Emma’s mom had met his dad it had been mere months after his own mom had left. Jack had taken to his second mother wholeheartedly, and Emma had been the younger sister he’d never wanted, but learned to love.

      Later he’d say that Emma had been such a little thing, and so cute, that he’d had no idea Satan lurked inside her.

      That was when he’d been going through his religious phase—when he’d thought he could evict her inner demons with staunch prayers and holy water.

      What bothered Jack most was how much he’d let himself love her and her mom. He’d accepted them, without reservation, because he was needy. He missed his own mom, and hers had greeted him with open arms.

      The trouble had begun when Emma turned nine. Jack was thirteen, and full of rebellion. She’d kicked his rebellion right in the butt. Rather than despising his family in a normal progression toward separation, poor Jack had been forced into the role of protector. He was always scared—for his dad, for his mom, for himself, and even a little for Emma. At the same time he’d be screeching and yelling, he’d be afraid to leave the house, for fear that They would come. The spectre of all that docility turning into a feeding frenzy horrified him, and filled his nightmares for years. He’d reacted the only way he knew how; the only way he could cope.

      Under the pressure of Emma’s freak show, and Jack’s explosive temper, their family unit had crumbled, and their parents had split. The pressure wasn’t off Jack, though. His stepmother and Emma still lived in the same school district. Emma’s arrival at his high school had set the pattern for Jack’s future existence.

      Protection. Aversion. Calculation. Cover. Jack had been tough, staunch, and—at times—downright mean. Like most bullies, he had a following, and he remembered high school as the best years of his life. He’d covered for Emma, even though their parents were no longer together, but he’d gotten back at her by nicknaming her “The Rat”, and then, “Rat”. It had stuck with her. Even Dale called her “Rat” sometimes—a leftover from college days, when Jack had paid her the occasional visit. Anyone who’d ever experienced Emma’s particular brand of mania could see how appropriate the name was.

      No wonder it had stuck.

      Emma really felt—most days—her life was getting under control. Running smoothly, with few unexpected surprises and fewer unwanted visitors. Her friends were really her friends, and they’d stuck with her, through deluge and onslaught. She no longer worried about the nature of her efforts, either. She’d discovered it didn’t matter what mood she was in—things might not always be peaceful, but they never turned out to be the ravenous feeding fests she’d once feared. She’d managed to leave those concerns behind her. The only people who feared that now were newcomers to her life. The others treated her occasional lapse the way Dale, Chang, and Nicola did—amusing, sometimes dismaying, but not really threatening. In fact, she guessed the uncertainty of her existence was what kept them—and others—coming round for more. “You never know what Emma’s gonna do next,” she’d once overheard. To which had come the laughing response, “I can give you a pretty good idea.” Words like that, followed by friendly laughter, did a lot for a self-esteem which had frequently been near rock-bottom.

      Yes, things were pretty good these days, except for her occasional very odd visitor. Emma still didn’t know what to do about it—him—them, but given her past experiences with odd phenomena, she was...almost...confident she could figure it out. For the moment, though, physical encounters were about to become much more problematic than metaphysical ones. Her dear ex-brother Jack was, even now, striding up her front walk.

*

      If he’d been there once, he could almost always find his way back again. Harley was good that way. Patterns were his thing. Whether it was the gridlike interface of a map, the layout of city streets, or the reconstruction of a car wreck from words and evidence, he excelled. Lately, he’d had a feeling they were grooming him for more. His conclusions had been considered a “vital contribution” to a murder investigation—i.e., he’d solved it for them—and he was pretty certain they were lining him up for detective. He had the schooling, he had the brains, and he now had the experience. The last thing he needed was to have his name associated in any way with Jock Jamieson’s. It’d be certain death to his career.

      I might just as well murder myself...

      Then why am I doing this? Harley blamed it on the change of schedule, residual fatigue from the night before, curiosity, and lastly—and perhaps most honestly—stupidity. He’d always had a secret fascination with the paranormal, too, and he couldn’t forget the dog’s bark from the night before. It’d had a hollowness to it, as though the bark itself had a residual, echoing quality. Yet, the sound had been loud, and it had responded to his movements around the house.

      Almost as if it were trying to thwart my entry. What had freaked him out even more, though, were those tip-tapping dog claws. When the barking failed to bar his passage, those damned claws would follow him around a room, and he could have sworn once or twice, a canine nose had sniffed at his legs and privates. It was the kind of behaviour he would have berated Choco for, and it wasn’t until he’d growled, almost under his breath, “Cut it out!” that the invisible mutt in Emma Rathburn’s house had backed off, and left him to it.

      Then why am I going back for more?

      Because it was the most interesting callout he’d experienced in the past eight years. He could admit it now: he would have come back today anyway, on some lame pretext, whether Jock was involved or not. Jock was actually the biggest obstacle, because it was his sister, and—either way—he’d know that Harley had been there. It might even make Jocko think Harley wanted to know him.

      Biiiig mistake...

      Harley was still thinking it when he came around the corner, just in time to see Emma pull into her driveway.

*

      Harley sat in his car and watched her for a full ten minutes.

      What am I—some kind of stalker?

      No, you dumbass, you’re a wannabe detective, who’s about to blow away all his opportunities nosing around in what’s none of his business.

      It actually took less than five minutes to figure out what was bothering her: Emma Rathburn was deliberately procrastinating. She was wandering, a little aimlessly, to the mailbox and back; watering the flowers by the walk; straightening the hanging basket on the porch. Every once in a while she’d stare at one of the windows, as though expecting the curtains to twitch. Then, she’d hurriedly go back to fussing with something else. Harley fully expected her to wash the car or mow the grass next—anything rather than enter her front door.

      Finally, she took a deep breath, and if Harley hadn’t known better, he’d have sworn she held it for the full time it took her to dig the key out of her pocket, and open the door. Harley actually had his hand on the car door handle, when Jock Jamieson’s car came tearing around the corner. When Jock stepped out of his car, Harley took the coward’s way out, and did the only thing he could think of: he ducked.

*

      Jack was going to be difficult. Emma could see it now, and she blamed herself for the signs of stress on his face. Her “Hi, Jack!” was cheerful, but sounded false, even to her own ears. Her added, “I wouldn’t have called unless I really thought I had a problem,” didn’t make things any better.

      Jack, wearing his thunder brow, stormed in, slammed the door, then thumped through to the living room. He plunked down on her couch. “What’s the story now, Rat?” he shouted.

      Emma flinched. “Just a mistake. I thought he—”

      Jack didn’t give her a chance to finish. “It’s always a mistake! You’re a mistake!” he continued, his voice rising. “A genetic accident, that never should have happened!” He couldn’t sit still after all. Jumping to his feet, he pounded across the floor, his mouth working, but no words coming out.

      “I’ve been working on biofeedback—” she began.

      His eyes widened. “‘Biofeedback’?” He knocked over her designer-copy lamp, and booted her table. “Maybe a little destructive feedback’s what you need—!” His face tight with fury, he slammed her bookshelves sideways, sending them spilling across the wood floor. “How ’bout some noise?! Will that help?” He stalked into the kitchen, and Emma grimaced as she heard her dishes go flying. He came back into the room with a knife, and cheerfully shredded her just-paid-for lounge suite. “That help?! Enough ‘feedback’?!”

      His initial fury exhausted, Jack dropped down on the shredded chair and flung the knife across the room. It embedded with a twang in the far wall. “I need you out of my life,” he told her. “Every time I feel I’m getting somewhere, it blows up, right in my face.”

      “Sorry, Jack,” she murmured. It was her fault. What had she cost him this time? A promotion? Maybe, even, his job? It didn’t seem fair that hers seemed relatively secure, while he—one of my victims, she thought dismally—always caught hell for her mistakes. “I’m so sorry—”

      The words weren’t even out when she heard it—them. It began with a squeak, and was followed by a low rumble. “Oh, God!” she murmured.

      “Aw, hell!” The last thing Jack wanted was to be caught here during one of her episodes. Shit, it was bad enough he’d admitted to Chalmers that he knew her. Biggest, fuckin’ mistake I’ve made yet. “I hate you!” Jack snarled. He twisted her way, and she knew he wanted to hurt her then—to get back at her for this...for everything. His grasp on her arm dented the muscle, ragged fingernails ripping flesh.

      Crush her, the way she’s crushed me... She could read it...him. His fury shimmered the air between them.

      He won’t...! He was always angry—had always been angry. Most of the time she took it as her due—the blame so much hers that it wasn’t worth discussing—but this? This was something else. Jack was so furious she could smell it. It emanated from him like some kind of molten wave. His teeth were bared, and the fingers gripping her arm were now tipped in red. “I’ll kill you!” he shouted, shaking her so hard her teeth rattled.

      It was the trigger. They’d been coming before, but now their numbers tripled. Like water seeping in through the cracks, they poured into the room—a solid stream of undulating brown bodies, rough tails, and whiskered snouts. On and on, in numbers like Emma’d never seen before. Under the doors, along the pipes, in through the cupboards, dropping from the ceiling, racing down the stairs, running along the doorjambs and windowsills, along the picture sill, across the drapes, through holes in the window screens...on and on and on...

*

      Harley didn’t know what prompted him to move. Maybe it was Jock’s bearing as he’d headed toward her house. He’d looked like a man who needed subduing. More than that: he looked ready to kill. Harley was halfway up her walkway when Jock’s “I’ll kill you!” rang out.

      Harley hit the porch at a run. His hand was on the front knob when a voice at his back shouted, “I’d find a tree if I were you—!”

      Harley never heard the rest. The words were lost in vibration. A thunderous rumble juddered the planks beneath his feet, and—convinced it was an earthquake—Harley latched onto the porch rail. He wobbled, lost his footing and fell to his knees.

      Then, he saw It—Them.

      My God! His eyes wild, his jaw gaping, he hesitated but an instant before leaping up on the railing and clinging to the struts above.

      Rats. Hundreds—no, thousands—of rats. They were pouring in from everywhere: under landscaped shrubs, from the vacant lot across the street, out of neighbouring basements, across roofs, up out of the stormdrains, from everywhere. He gasped in horror as they ran past him—over his feet, over each other, across the railing, then down onto the porch—before pouring in through a narrowing gap of doorway.

      I opened it! he thought in horror.

      In his eagerness to help, he’d turned that knob, and given the hordes entrance. True, they were pouring in through windowscreens, too, but by far the greatest numbers were skittering in through the front door.

      The numbers seemed endless, but they gradually tapered off till only a few latecomers were left. The lawn, which had been slightly on the long side, was now scalped in some places, and littered with rat droppings on the rest. The squeaks and thuds gradually quietened, but if there’d been screams from the people inside, they’d been drowned by the deluge.

      Either that, or they never had the chance to scream...

      Harley clung there, lost in the horror, and dreading what he had to do next. His feet wanted to lead him onto the grass and streak for home, while his mouth hung open in a silent scream for help.

      Duty first, God help me. He sniffed, gagged on the stink of rat urine, and pulled out his phone.

      “Wait!” It was the guy from before, and now Harley recalled his shouted words, “I’d find a tree if I were you—!”

      Harley froze, phone in hand. “You knew.”

      “Yeah,” the guy said calmly. “But don’t call. Emma doesn’t need that kind of notoriety.” As though reading the question in Harley’s eyes, he added helpfully, “It’s okay. I work with her.”

      At what? Harley remembered the job description in the file: “researcher”. “Rat research?” he asked.

      “Yeah,” the guy replied. He seemed to think it was hilarious. “We’re into rat mesmerisation. Brand new field.” He sniggered, noted that Harley was taking it wrong and had his finger back on the phone buttons. “Wait till you see. Please.”

      Harley knew he was a fool for complying, but he nodded curtly. He didn’t want to speak any more. Breathing all that rat stink made him feel like he had it in his mouth. He fought down the urge to gag again.

      If you get eaten, Chalmers, it’s your own fault.

      This has to be the stupidest thing you’ve ever done.

      No—that was coming here, in the first place...

      It wasn’t difficult to see where the rats had gone. They overflowed the living room and out into the hall. Piles of them, many of them upside down, all in peaceful repose. Their scrabbling, running feet and nasty squeaks had been universally replaced by soft snores, that sent a rumble of vibration through the air.

      Jock Jamieson sat there, as if made of stone. He was buried up to his chest. Only his eyes made a frantic acknowledgment of Harley’s presence. Harley could almost hear the “Oh, shit!” he didn’t dare vocalise, as Jock raised his eyes heavenwards, in what Harley could only presume was a prayer for deliverance.

      The girl was halfway buried, too. The highest pile radiated from her, and she sat there impatiently. Harley could read it in her face. But she didn’t dare move...

      Did she still think they were going to eat her—them? It was a very real possibility, in Harley’s mind. He lifted his phone, and Emma’s head shook, by just a fraction. No! Her eyes were frantic.

      She’s right. Might set them off...

      But, Emma’s eyes weren’t panicked—just frantic. She was using them now to convey some message, and it included the man at his side. Harley silently backed out of the room and looked inquiringly at Dale.

      “It always happens this way,” Dale whispered, into Harley’s ear. He eyed the rat pile. “Few more this time, though.”

      “‘Alw-’” Some of the slumberers shifted, and Harley lowered his voice. “‘Always’?” He couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

      Dale nodded. “She was trying to tell you there’s nothing to worry about.” He actually looked as though he was trying not to laugh. Harley couldn’t believe it. “Most of the time,” Dale hissed, “she’s right.”

      Harley looked warily back into the living room. Emma Rathburn nodded almost imperceptibly and forced a smile.

      Harley turned back to Dale, incredulity in his eyes. His whispered “And when she’s wrong?” was barely out when the alarm on his phone burst into a loud sing-song wail. Time to wake up.

      “Shit!” Dale shouted, no longer worrying about keeping his voice down. For the first time, he looked scared. He shouted the answer to Harley’s question back over his shoulder, as he tore out the front door. “Y’ run like hell!”

*